Can you stomach yogurt colored lies with no fruit at the bottom? When Batman's robbing Robin over Baskin-Robbins, it's more than a generational problem. Can you blame a tricked side-kick for wearing jewelry that a Two-Face got him? Better yet, who's going to stop him?
Choosing between two villains is hardly an option, so I can see why many don't touch the sky too often… they say you've flipped sides when you start somersaulting.
I try to give the people what they always wanted... more than what they bargained for... or settled for.
Newspaper colonist-columnists see scores of my meteor metaphors for social mediator's comets, commits, and comments behind locked doors… so, of course, I'm on course for closed caption infinity war(s), but the encores aren't available in stores.
My single mind gets explicit against duplicit amours involving armoire tours, four floors, and bi-plural-floral murals depicting angry boars. Daring leaps on glory storyboards help my spirit soar before I grace the Forbes.
I'm still expecting when morale is still-born, so these pregnant thoughts of milk and honey are still warm. The difference between me and them is still form. You can tell in the landing… you can tell in the planning. You can tell that the bars I'm balancing are more demanding… and even when you can't, I'm not complaining.